


Come into my Castle

by H3L



Series: A Game of You [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, PWP, Shameless Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:49:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H3L/pseuds/H3L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime stumbles on a morning ritual of Brienne's and it becomes a part of his daily routine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come into my Castle

**Author's Note:**

> This is a shamelessly smutty one shot, I hope you weren't expecting any plot or merit from this story. And as always, a big thank you to the wonderful, ever blushing, _Snowfright_ , for being the most amazing beta and for convincing me this was worth posting!

Jaime waited patiently at his door, the one between his room and Brienne’s, for the sound of her return. They shared the Lord Commander’s apartments, having oft bedded down together in their travels, so that they might leave every other room with a floor space suitable for beds for the men and women pouring North to join with the freefolk and the Targaryan army in defending the Wall. This arrangement was a blessing, but also a curse, one he thought to have been devised by the seven solely to torment him. The thud of a chamber door closing in the room jerked Jaime back into the moment. He spared himself an instant of self-loathing at his excitement. He was nothing but a crippled, old man with a taste for youth. It did not change the way Jaime pressed forward to observe. 

He watched through a gap in the thick wood as she removed her armor, the dented plate clattering when it hit the floor and the soft, buttery leather of her surcoat falling after it with a sigh. Her hair was matted and dark from sweat, dirt, and the inescapable ash that permeated the air since the arrival of Daenarys Targaryan’s horde of Dothraki and her deadly pets. She removed her boots and plain wool breeches, both soaked to dripping with blood and icy water, and grabbed the hem of her tunic to pull it over her head. She wasn’t beautiful. Her breasts were small, her teeth were large, her shoulders were broad and her cheek was marred with scar tissue, but she was _strong_. As strong as a castle wall. He could see it in the corded muscles of her thick thighs and the controlled way in which she moved. Jaime licked his lips, eager for what he knew would be coming. His throat felt thick when he swallowed and his hand trembled at the laces of his breeches, but he did not undo them. 

_Not yet_ , he told himself sternly, _not yet_. She sunk into the copper tub in the center of her room, the hot water steaming, and hissed at the feeling somewhere between pleasure and pain. He knew the sensation well. The cold of the Wall was numbing, but you could forget about it as you worked, hacking and slashing, the song of the sword warming your veins even as the winter chilled you. When your skin hits that hot water it is like waking from a dream, the heat is almost unbearable at first but you are reminded that you are alive. It is the same sensation as sinking into a woman and almost coming undone. 

Brienne dragged the block of lye left by the tub over her arms and legs, dipping it into the water over her stomach and dragging it along the freckled tops of her shoulders. He watched, mouth half-open, as she lathered some of the soap in her hands and rubbed her breasts gently until her dusky nipples were hard nubs beneath her long fingers. Finally she scrubbed at her face and hair, the dirt and ash coloring the water in grey clouds and leaving her pink and fresh-faced, her hair a nest of soft blonde curls instead of the tangled, filthy mess it had been. Brienne stood and grabbed a towel from the rack left beside the thick tub, drying herself off briskly. He could see the gooseflesh that pimpled her skin when the cold air hit her, sending the hot water that ran down her skin into unpredictable little rivulets. 

Jaime began to unlace his breeches, the fingers of his left hand moving more deftly than usual, and set about pushing them down his hips. He was fresh from the bath himself, and could clearly see the one or two grey hairs hidden amongst the gold thicket at the base of his achingly hard cock. He dragged the pad of his thumb over the tip, catching the sticky cum that had leaked out and spreading it along his shaft languidly. He lifted his gaze back up and studied the way she moved, the interesting way she dressed before getting into the large bed in her room. He had given her the Lord Commander’s sleeping chambers and took the solar for himself with one of the smaller beds from the barracks, not that he ever slept there. She moved quickly, pulling on a clean tunic that he recognized as his own, and plain white small clothes. Brienne had a fire lit in her grate but her nipples were still hard enough to tent the fabric of the tunic slightly and he wished he could tongue them through the thin white fabric. 

He spit in his hand, not taking his eyes away from her as she lay in the large bed. The coverlet was turned down but she did not crawl under it, remaining above the bedding. Brienne bent her long legs, her knees coming up high to press her feet flat against the thick mattress for leverage. Finally Jaime’s wait was over. Her left hand pressed hard to her left breast, the mound of flesh soft and pliant, dragging her blunted nails over her long, pale neck. Her right hand, with its deft fingers, delved confidently into her small clothes. She moaned and he dragged his hand from the base of his cock to the top roughly. Leaning forward, his hairline anchored to the oak of the door and his knees locked, he watched her as she began to move. 

Her fingers started slow, he could make out the circular motion through the snowy linen or her thin garment, her feet steadily pressing down and raising her hips just a fraction of an inch. He wondered who had taught her to touch herself like she was. Who had instructed her to tweak her nipple and tease her own cunt until she was biting her lip to keep quiet? It was certainly not something she had indulged in during their time together. He would most certainly have noticed is she was fucking herself when she slept beside him on their way from Harrenhal or during their quest to find Sansa Stark. Perhaps Winterfell, he thought, reminded by the thought of the Queen in the North. Brienne had stayed her nights with the women there at Sansa’s behest. The resilient, Northern Morment girls with their thick braids and boiled leather armor and the Kraken Queen, Asha Greyjoy with her battle axe, had taken to Brienne immediately. 

It might be that Asha felt sorry for Brienne. Perhaps the Kraken had spread Brienne’s legs roughly, slipped a finger inside of her smallclothes, and taught her what it was to be a woman. The Iron Islands were hard and so was their Queen, she would nip at Brienne’s neck as she curled her fingers inside of the girl, teething and leaving marks. He pulled roughly and groaned into his chest, imagining Brienne flushed and sweat drenched beneath the woman who would call herself Queen of the Ironborn. 

_Or_ the Morments, he wondered idly as his mind wandered and his hand kept pace with the rhythm Brienne was furiously setting a room away. Those Northern women were not so coarse as the Ironborn Queen, they were gentler. Alysane and Lyra would have guided Brienne down, gently soothing her. Alysane would have kissed her thick lips while Lyra dragged a tongue along a breast, teasing the underside and sucking the tip into her mouth. Perhaps Lyra would go further still, pulling away Brienne’s smallclothes and dipping her tongue between Brienne’s legs, wetting the girl’s warm folds and taking that little button between her teeth. Alysane would drag Brienne’s fingers down to the slick folds and show her how to touch herself the way she was doing now, pumping in and out, her hips rolling erratically and making her meager chest bounce. 

He focused his green eyes on her and bit his lip while she worked herself up. There was a thin sheen of sweat on her open legs and she was keening quietly, her head pressed back into the pillows at the top of her bed. He wanted to open the door, kneel between her legs and pull away her furiously working hand. He wanted to sink into her, imagining how she would gasp in surprise. She would be wet and ready and so close, her walls pressed hotly against him as they made room to accommodate something much larger than her fingers. Her left hand abandoned its small hill of freckled flesh to twist in the coverlet beneath her, her toes curling and her mouth opening silently as she reached her peak. Jaime pulled and pulled, pushing himself closer to the edge, his eyes never leaving her as he abused himself. Brienne tentatively removed her hand from her smallclothes, boneless and breathing heavily. He watched as she lifted her fingers up to examine them, her bright eyes narrowing and her tongue flicking out experimentally to taste herself. 

He came hard against the door watching her pink tongue swirl around the blunted tip of her finger, coating the ancient oak in pearly white. Groaning, Jaime stepped back and leaned himself against the wall. He was panting like a dog and his legs felt like jelly beneath him. After some minutes he finally pushed himself away from the wall, going to his own tub of significantly cooler water and dipping in a cloth. He rinsed his left hand first before taking the cloth and cleaning the door that stood fast between his desire and Brienne. As he wiped the oak down, he noticed there was a spot developing that was cleaner than the rest. He didn’t think anyone was likely to notice, and he surmised they would all be dead in a matter of months anyway so who would care if they did, but he made a mental note to have someone wash the door down properly tomorrow morning. There were a few hours of daylight left, and Jaime intended to make the most of them. 

“Wench?” He questioned, knocking on the door he had just finished cleaning. He opened it and peered through the dark, she had closed the curtains against the sun. “Wench, are you asleep?”

“Jaime?” Brienne sat up in bed, her wet hair rumpled and her eyes looking heavy in the dim. “What are you doing? Come in,” she beckoned him sleepily. He did as he was told, as he did every morning, padding into the room and shutting the door behind him. Brienne pulled back the coverlet and furs, sinking into the stark swan mattress, and pulled them tightly down when he was pressed into her. They never slept apart, that was how he had tripped onto her morning ritual the first time. In the early hours of dawn, after another long night of battle with her blood running hot, she had feverishly worked at her release while he spied her from his chamber. He pulled her to him as he pushed his memories away, her skin hot to the touch and pleasantly clean, and closed his eyes. He willed himself to get what little sleep he could, while he could. 

“I waited for you,” she said quietly after a minute of two, so quietly he thought he misheard her and was falling into a dream. 

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, my Lady,” he mumbled into her hair. “Next time, go to sleep and I’ll stay in my room if you’d like.” He whispered the words with a prayer in his mind that she would tell him that was not necessary. The thought that she was entertaining the thought of inviting one of the other men, the younger men, to join her in her early morning activities was galling.

“That,” she started, stuttering to a stop after the word. There was a moment of silence as his eyes adjusted to the dark a little more. She had turned and was looking at him, biting her lip and studying his face carefully. “That is not what I meant, Ser. I-I waited for you, but you stayed at the door.” Jaime’s fingers tightened on her hip, clutching involuntarily in his shock. He looked to the door between their rooms from his position, the one with the chink that he had watched her through for so many nights. To his horror and shame the gap was wide enough for her to see him, at least well enough to know he was there is not to know what he was doing. He imagined she could guess. “You never come in,” she said shyly, “but you are always there. Why are you always there?”

“I wanted …I didn’t think you’d-” he tried to tell her she shouldn’t want him, that he was a one-handed cripple with shit for honor and a name that she could never escape, but his protests died in his mouth as her hand came up to cup his face. She stroked his chin, scratching his beard experimentally and making him hum in appreciation. He caught her hand and held it still before his eyes, then darted his tongue out to taste her as she had tasted herself. The flavor was muted and clean, gently musky on his tongue. Brienne sucked in a breath and he could see her neck and face flush with blood. 

“Do you want me to come in, my Lady?” He asked her, turning her towards him and pressing his now half-hard cock against her damp smallclothes. Brienne gasped, trembling, with eyes closed and mouth open. He let his hand slide from her hip around to the small of her back and tugged her closer, his rational mind fogged by a cloudy miasma of longing. Jaime pressed a hot kiss to her blushing neck, trailing his lips and tongue along her jaw. 

“Yes,” she replied finally, breathily, against his mouth as it met hers.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hope you liked my most recent foray into the sex lives of Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth. All feedback is loved and appreciated.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Arianne](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108243) by [almostabeauty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostabeauty/pseuds/almostabeauty)




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